What Jenie Carried
What Jenie Carried
Inour little corner of the village, where the jack trees leaned heavy with fruit and the morning sun painted the earth gold, there was a quiet rhythm to life. The lane, dusty and narrow, wound past low hedges and houses that seemed to hum with secrets. It was a place where everyone knew everyone else’s business, and yet, some stories were told only in whispers.
On one such morning, when the air was thick with heat and the scent of drying clothes, I heard Sebastian’s voice rise above the usual chatter of the neighborhood. He stood by the hedge that marked the boundary between his home and Jenie’s, his sarong clinging to his legs, his arms folded tight. Sebastian was the church acolyte, a man who carried his piety like a badge, his words polished with scripture but sharp with something else – something that wasn’t quite holy.
“If you bring those children to church, I’ll fetch the priest myself,” he declared, his voice slicing through the stillness. He meant Jenie’s twins, born out of wedlock, as the village tongues never tired of saying.
Neeta, pinning wet clothes to the line, paused. The clothes hung limp in her hands, heavy as the words she’d just heard. She didn’t turn to face him at first, as if hoping the breeze might carry his judgment away. When she spoke, her voice was calm, like the slow ripple of a stream. “That’s a hard thing to say, Sebastian. Jenie’s only trying to raise her children, same as we all try to live by what we believe.”
Sebastian’s face tightened. “She’s a disgrace to us all,” he said, and I could see the righteousness in his eyes, the kind that builds walls instead of bridges.
I was just a boy then, lingering down the lane, my sandals kicking up dust as I dawdled on my way to nowhere in particular. But I knew Jenie– Neeta’s younger sister, who walked to the brass factory each day, her head high under the weight of the village’s stares. Jenie, who never hid, never broke, even when her man slipped away like a shadow, leaving her with two babies and a world of whispers. Her twins, now a year old, were full of giggles, their tiny feet dusted with soot. At night, she’d murmur prayers over them, her voice soft as moonlight.
Neeta didn’t argue further with Sebastian. Instead, she changed the subject, her tone lighter but pointed. “And why’s your fence creeping closer again? I’ve seen Julie moving the stones, bit by bit, till even the jack tree’s roots are half on our side.”
It was true. Julie, Sebastian’s wife, thin as a reed and silent as a shadow, had been nudging the boundary stones when she thought no one watched. I’d seen it too, on quiet afternoons when the village dozed.
Sebastian muttered something and turned away, but the air felt heavier, as if his words had settled into the dust. Neeta went back to her washing, her hands steady, her thoughts far away – perhaps with Jenie, who carried her burdens with a grace the village seldom noticed.
Old Natalie, the twins’ grandmother, appeared in the doorway then, her back bent like the curve of a question mark. She didn’t speak, didn’t scold, just stood there, her eyes tracing the scene with a weariness that knew too much. Her presence was enough – a silent reminder of all the years she’d seen, all the judgments she’d outlived.
I wandered on, past the hedge, past the jack tree with its gnarled roots. But Sebastian’s words stayed with me, like a stone in my shoe. Why did some folks wrap their hearts in rules, I wondered, while others, like Jenie, carried their troubles openly, like a basket of laundry under the sun? In our little lane, where boundaries were marked by stones and silences, Jenie’s courage was a quiet song, one that lingered long after the voices of judgment faded.
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